


Study of an interior

by sinead



Category: White Collar
Genre: First Time, Holiday, Multi, Polyamory, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-06
Updated: 2009-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-04 05:24:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinead/pseuds/sinead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>give him a reason.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Study of an interior

A week before Thanksgiving, they were lying in bed, discussing turkey. Elizabeth wanted to try dry brining it this year. Peter wasn't so sure.

"What about Neal?" she said. "We should have him here." He could hear something careful in her voice, and then she added, "This might be the right time." Peter's heart started to pound, a little.

Elizabeth turned over in bed to look at him. She was smiling. "Four day weekend, you know. It would give you both time to get your game faces in order, afterward."

Peter snorted. "I'm not sure what Neal's game face will be, exactly, since his current office behavior consists mostly of flirting." He was quiet for a moment. "I'd have to come up with a story to cover his tracker location, just in case anyone looks at the logs."

"That's easy," Elizabeth said. "You got talking about a case and it got late. Car trouble. Too much to drink." She paused. "Maybe don't use all of those at once."

"You think?" Peter sighed. "This is going to be our life if we do this, El. Hiding from the FBI."

She propped herself up on an elbow and looked at him gravely. "If you decide you can't, you know that won't be a problem for you and me, right? We're in this together, or not at all."

"Yeah, but that's the hell of it."

She nodded. "You want to. And so do I. And so does Neal." He shrugged at that, and she pushed his shoulder. "I keep telling you, you've always been a terrible judge of your own appeal." He caught her hand, drew it to his lips and kissed her palm.

"The thing is," he said, "we've been clear about the risks, how this could all go bad. And you're right, I still want to. Not just because of how great it could be, but because I keep thinking--what if he gets a line on Kate, something that looks real promising to him, and he takes off? Because he doesn't feel like there's anything important enough to hold him here? What if I have to go after him and put him in jail forever?" He scrubbed his hand over his face. "I don't think I could stand it."

"No." El's voice was soft. "I don't think so, either."

"And I want to give him something, a reason, something to make him want to stay more than he wants to go. Because I want him not to go to jail again. I want us to be enough to keep him here."

El said, "Only you could have a genuinely altruistic motive for having a polyamorous relationship with your wife and a convicted felon." He cast her a skeptical glance, and she added dryly, "I didn't say it was your only motive." They were silent, until she said quietly, "The only way to know is to try."

"Okay," he said, "I'll ask him."

* * *

"Neal, get in here," Peter called from his office. Neal's head popped around the glass wall, and he bounced into the room. He was tossing a koosh ball.

"What's up?"

"Listen, you've got to stop using the receptionist's computer to watch cat videos on Youtube and increase your daily freecell quota," Peter said. "It's not going to work." Neal was on a not-so-stealthy campaign to get his own Bureau workstation, but Hughes drew the line at giving him possible access to government databases. "And that's Cruz's koosh ball."

Neal grinned at him, and tossed the ball over. "Really? I was sure it was yours."

Peter tossed the ball back and said casually (god, he hoped it sounded casual), "hey, you wanna come to our place for Thanksgiving dinner?" Neal's face changed, and Peter couldn't quite read his expression.

"That's funny," he said, "I was given instructions by June to invite you." This was delivered with something less than Neal's usual smoothness, and he added, "You and Elizabeth, of course. June would really like it. And so would I." Peter's heart sank a little; he didn't think Neal would miss the subtext of his invitation, and wondered if this was Neal's way of fending off...whatever this was between them.

"I dunno, Neal," he hedged, "June strikes me as someone who usually goes to a fancy restaurant for Thanksgiving, or has a big party, and we're pretty casual." Plus, football, he thought with a little dismay. Once he had allowed himself to think about it, he really wanted to sit with Neal and Elizabeth on the couch and watch some football.

"It won't be like that," Neal said with confidence. "Also, June said that she thinks Chicago is going to kick Green Bay's collective ass, and I thought you might want to be there to discuss that with her."

Peter forced a grin. If this was the way Neal wanted to play it, well. Well, okay. "I'll ask Elizabeth."

* * *

They took a cab from Union Square to the corner of 79th and Riverside. As they walked up Riverside Drive, Peter held onto the brandy with one hand and Elizabeth's hand with the other. It was sunny, but cold; the air held the promise of snow. They approached June's front door, and he could see some other people standing in the portico. As he had suspected, they weren't the only guests. The door opened just as they came up the steps, and there was June looking glamorous in a cream colored sweater, with Neal in one of his absurd vests right behind her, smiling what Peter had come to think of as his professional charmer smile. When Neal saw the two of them, his smile relaxed into something more genuine, and Elizabeth squeezed Peter's hand. She had taken the change to their plan with more equanimity than he had, saying that it would be nice to finally meet June.

There was a scrum just inside the door, with everyone taking off their coats and talking. There was also a lot of confused hugging and kissing; Peter took June's hand and kissed her cheek lightly, while murmuring his thanks for the invitation. Next to him, Neal was kissing Elizabeth in the French way, left cheek, right cheek, and before Peter could move, Neal was doing the same to him. He was momentarily overwhelmed by the barest brush of lips, the silk of Neal's hair tickling his eyebrow, the smell of Neal's soap. Before he recovered, Neal was taking the brandy bottle and showing it to June, whose eyes lit up.

"How lovely! Thank you," she said. Peter managed to respond, "All the credit goes to Elizabeth, she has the knowledge and the connections." June threaded her arm through Elizabeth's and said, "Then Elizabeth and I will be great friends," and laughing, started leading the way out of the hall. Peter had a fleeting and irrational wish that Neal, who was still standing so close that his warmth was palpable, would take Peter's arm, or grab his hand, something to complete the buzzing circuit that he had tripped when he touched his lips to Peter's cheek. It seemed hot in here. He tried to tug unobtrusively at the neck of his sweater.

"Deep breaths, tiger," Neal said to him, sotto voce, and then he sauntered after the group.

"You bastard," Peter muttered to the empty hall. "I'm going to get you for that."

***

It turned out that June had given her staff the day off. "They get a holiday, and I get to play in the kitchen. The turkey is coming from Butterfield's, though," she confessed. "I didn't want to have to leap up to baste during a crucial play." After everyone had been introduced, she took them into the kitchen, which was huge. The scrubbed acre of tabletop alone looked bigger than Peter's first apartment.

Elizabeth's eyes lit up at the giant six burner stove and multiple ovens; privately, Peter found them rather terrifying, but when she sighed rapturously, "Oh, a _Garland_," June just grinned and offered her an apron.

"I still need some sauteed onions," she said.

"You're on," Elizabeth said. One of the other guests grabbed a knife and began slicing the onions with such formidable skill that Peter decided he must either be a sushi chef or a surgeon. People clustered around to take the hors d'oeuvre plates that June pulled out of the fridge and the warming oven; they carried them off, trooping in and out of the room. Neal expertly--no surprise there--opened a bottle of champagne, easing the cork out with a sighing pop and no overflowing froth, his clever hands light on the bottle's gleaming foil neck. He poured the champagne into flutes, which he began handing around. Peter watched the other guests smile as he came near them, watched as he took a glass to Elizabeth, who was wielding a wooden spoon at the stove; she took it in her free hand, and he leaned over to murmur in her ear. She laughed.

Neal came over to him next, with two glasses. "Champagne, Peter?" Peter realized he was somehow already holding a bowl of stuffed olives and a plate of something else, some little round tart-looking things, and they had one of those comic moments of indecision where Peter waved the olives around and Neal feinted left and right with the glasses. Finally, Neal set the glasses down and grabbed Peter's wrist firmly.

"How about we trade," he said, and took the olives away. Peter picked up a champagne glass, and felt the imprint of Neal's hand lingering on his wrist. Neal raised his own glass and then touched the rim to Peter's. It made a tiny, ringing chime.

"Happy Thanksgiving, partner," he said, and took a sip.

"Happy Thanksgiving," Peter repeated automatically.

"Neal, my dear," June said, "can you go turn on the game? I'll be along in a moment."

"Sure," Neal replied. He smiled sidelong. "Peter can help me find the remote."

***

This room was huge, too--it had a lot of books and a desk and a couch and chairs and at one end, a table that was the destination of the hors d'oeuvres. A couple of the guests were standing around it. The TV was at the other end. Neal proceeded to unbutton his vest and hand it to Peter, who stared at him.

Peter looked at the vest in his hand and up again at Neal, who was on his knees in front of the couch with his cheek pressed to the cushions, his arm disappearing into the crevice almost to the shoulder. He said, "I'm probably going to have crawl under furniture, and that's a--"

"A Devore, yeah, I got it," Peter said. Neal's shirt gapped to show a tiny sliver of skin.

An older man with white hair and a distinctive voice came up beside Peter and remarked, "Ah, the yearly hunt begins. A long tradition." June had introduced him as Roland. "Last year, we found it on top of Letitia, there." He nodded toward an abstract looking bust in pale stone of a woman's head.

"On the Guernisch?" Neal said, voice muffled by damask. "Well, that's amusingly inappropriate." He sat back on his heels, stood up and moved away from the couch, and bent almost double to reach into a very tall ceramic jar. Roland was saying something. Peter was vaguely aware that other people had come into the room. Neal had a look of fierce concentration, which changed to triumph when he pulled his hand out, holding a black remote. His eyes were sparkling. One cheek was flushed. He had a bit of fluff in his hair.

Elizabeth came up beside Peter and took his arm; he felt quite relieved. "Look honey," he said. "Neal found the remote."

"So I see," she said. "Well done, Neal." Peter's heart clenched a bit when Neal smiled back at them, and he felt briefly, ridiculously happy.

***

So Peter got his wish, or part of it, anyway; he did get to sit on a couch with Neal and Elizabeth and watch football. That there were seven other people in the room, cheering, groaning, laughing, and arguing the merits of the Bears' offense, well, those were the breaks.

* * *

Most everyone had left, with more kissing, more hugging, many exclamations about the dinner's deliciousness. The sushi chef, whose name was Mike (he really was a sushi chef, and also, a pretty cool guy), had just departed with a promise to get together for more football later in the month. Peter and Elizabeth were sitting on the couch again with Neal. June was in an adjacent chair. Elizabeth and June had their heads together, murmuring and occasionally laughing a little. Peter, who was not much of a brandy drinker, was nevertheless able to admire the way the little pool of liquid in his glass burst into vapors on his tongue when he sipped it. He hadn't eaten much; he thought he might be a little drunk. Neal was uncharacteristically quiet, and as expressionless as Peter had ever seen him.

"Hey," Peter said, remembering something that had occurred to him earlier, "where's Havisham?"

"Havisham isn't much for holiday rituals," Neal said. "He told me he was going to Atlantic City with a tall blonde."

"Huh. It wouldn't surprise me if every pit boss in town has his photograph; you think they'll let him in the casinos?"

Neal shrugged. "Probably not, but he really just wants to go to the floor shows, anyway."

The two of them fell silent again. June stood up; Peter and Neal, after a second's abstraction, followed. Elizabeth sat quietly, looking on.

"Well, I hate to leave you, but I have to get up early tomorrow to catch a flight." Peter felt like a fool and began to try and apologize for keeping her, but June stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Nonsense--I am so grateful to you for coming, and I want you to stay as long as you like and relax. Talk to Neal." Then she kissed them all goodnight and went upstairs.

Peter and Neal hovered awkwardly on their feet, until Elizabeth grabbed Neal's hand and gave him a gentle yank. He sank back to the couch, and Peter followed suit, dropping into June's vacated chair. Neal picked up his own untouched brandy glass and stared at it. "She's going to visit her family, and then to Paris. And London, I think."

"Where do they live?" Elizabeth asked.

"Near St. Louis someplace," Neal said. "I got the impression it was pretty small." He lifted his brandy glass but didn't drink, just swirled it and watched the liquid sheathe the sides. "Did you ever do any research on my hometown, Peter? C'mon, I know you figured out what it was."

Peter's throat felt rough. "Ogden, Indiana. Little steel town near Gary."

Neal raised his glass a little higher in a salute and looked down again as he lowered it. "I knew my carefully planted red herrings wouldn't fool you. Ex-steel town, though. Ex." The house had gotten so quiet. There wasn't even any traffic noise. Peter wondered if it had started to snow.

"I remembered what a small town was like, when I came to work with you at the FBI. Office politics, everyone knowing everyone else's business. That hadn't been part of my work experience," and even though he was still looking down, Peter could see his tiny smile, "until now." He looked up then. The smile was gone. Peter hadn't seen his face look so naked since that first day in the empty apartment, with an empty wine bottle between them. "I thought if you came here, it would be better. You wouldn't have to lie about the tracker, if you were asked." Peter could feel Elizabeth's still concentration, humming like a live thing.

"I find," said Neal with some incredulity, "that I don't want you to compromise yourself for me."

Elizabeth drew an audible breath. Then she kissed Neal.

It was a deep kiss, nothing friendly or courteous. In a blur, Peter saw her hands on Neal's face, their dark hair mingling. Neal's hands came up behind her, to her shoulder, the small of her back, with greedy, desperate motions. They broke apart.

"_Peter_," El said, and he was on his feet, Neal in his arms, Neal in his mouth, Neal between his thighs. Neal's hands were shaking, he realized, but then so were his own.

They went upstairs. In the enormous bed, the moonlight through the high angled windows fell on them, the snow--it was actually snowing--tapping very softly on the glass. _Like a prince in a fairy tale_, Peter thought and then that storybook image was gone, burned away by sensation as he traced the shadowy curve of Neal's neck with his mouth, felt him pant and watched him shape the weight of Elizabeth's breast in his palm.

* * *

The next morning, he woke early and suddenly, aware that he was in a strange place and had heard a strange noise. He propped himself up to listen for a moment, and decided it had been the heavy front door closing--there was perhaps the faint sound of a car pulling away from the house. June, off on her trip. He was on his back--the light coming through the windows now was pale and slanting, like the light through the painted window of some old Dutch master. He thought, before he turned to look, that the three of them in that bed would have been much too shocking a tableau to be immortalized for the prosperous burghers of Amsterdam, but when he saw Neal and El, asleep next to him, he was the one who was shocked. They looked so right. So comfortable and domestic, even naked in the opulence of this room. Neal cracked an eye up at him; he caught a glimpse of blue.

"You're not freaking out, are you?" Neal muttered.

"No," Peter said. "No, I'm not."

"Good." Neal tugged him down. "Go back to sleep. Later, I'll make you coffee."

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by giglet and wearemany, who deserve sparkly tiaras and Sy Devore fedoras.
> 
> I started writing this over Thanksgiving--then the show came along and gave us all lots of OT3 is canon! moments, which made me say, aww, show. Thanks for the early Christmas presents, they are exactly what I wanted.


End file.
